Megan Hoover.
I haven’t seen her in years, not since I left for college if I’m being honest. She was already a few years ahead of me back then she was Honey Springs royalty, the mayor’s daughter; always poised, always polished. The kind of girl who seemed untouchable, wrapped in a perfect pink bow.
A few weeks ago, Mrs. Mirtha and Mrs. Henrietta came into the salon and spent a good half hour talking about Megan. How she’d moved back into her parents’ house after some big heartbreak and how people were whispering about the mess she’d gotten herself into with a married man. I didn’t say much, just listened, nodding here and there, but part of me wondered what it was like to have your pain dissected like that, passed around town like cheap candy.
And here she is now, wrapped in a literal pink dress that flows softly around her knees. Her hair is pulled back in a low ponytail, her face bare except for a touch of lip balm, and there's something tired in her eyes. Like she's been carrying too much for too long.
“Megan,” I say, my voice light, bright. “Hi! It’s so good to see you.”
“Hi, Eva.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Thanks for squeezing me in.”
“Of course. Come on in. Have a seat.”
She settles into the treatment chair, and I take a moment to study her face, still stunning, even without makeup. But the circles under her eyes are deep and shadowed, her skin a little dull. She looks worn down.
I keep my voice soft. “So, what brings you in today?”
“I need help,” she says with a little laugh, then gestures to her face. “A whole reset, honestly. My skincare routine is nonexistent right now. And these—” she touches the delicate skin beneath her eyes “—need serious help. I’ve been crying a lot.”
That admission takes me by surprise.
“Oh,” I say, gently. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
She waves a hand, brushing it off. “I’m okay now. I think. I just... I need to start feeling like myself again. Or maybe a new version of myself. Something.”
I nod and start going through the questions, what products she’s used in the past, skin type, allergies. She answers everything patiently, and even smiles a little as we chat. She’s kind. Softer than I remember.
Once we go through everything, I start lining up a few product samples on the counter. “Okay, so for the under-eye circles, I’d recommend this one. It’s got caffeine, vitamin C, and peptides. It’s gentle but effective. And this moisturizer is great for sensitive skin. It’ll help with hydration and barrier repair. We’ll add a brightening serum too.”
She looks at the little line-up of bottles and jars and exhales slowly. “Thank you, Eva. This already helps more than you know.”
I pause, watching her carefully. “Are you okay?”
She stiffens slightly at the question, blinking fast like she wasn’t expecting anyone to actually ask. Then, her lips part and the words spill out, low and raw.
“I made a mistake,” she whispers. “A horrible one. I fell in love with a married man.”
I freeze, unsure how to respond, but she keeps going.
“He told me he was separated. That he and his wifewere finalizing the divorce. He made it all sound so real. Told me he wanted to start a life with me… even asked me to move in with him.” She laughs bitterly. “And I did. Like a fool. And then, just like that, he took her back. No warning. No explanation. Just—‘it’s over.’”
Her voice cracks, and she shakes her head. “I came back here because I didn’t know where else to go. And now the town won’t stop whispering. People think I’m this... home-wrecker. But I didn’t know. I didn’t mean for any of it.”
My heart squeezes for her. “Megan,” I say softly, “I’m so sorry.”
She wipes under her eyes quickly, trying to pull herself together. “It was my first time really falling in love, you know? And it blew up in my face.”
I reach out and gently touch her hand. “You didn’t deserve that. He lied. That’s not on you. And you will be okay, I promise. There’s someone out there who’s going to love you right. No lies. No games. Just real.”
She stares at me for a second, like she’s searching for something, maybe judgment, maybe pity but she finds neither. Just understanding.
“Thank you,” she says, her voice small. “I really needed that.”
She stands, gathering the samples I gave her and her small purse. “You’re really sweet, Eva. I get why everyone likes you.”
I smile. “Anytime, Megan. Really.”
She gives me one last look—grateful, maybe a little embarrassed—and walks out.
